The Sheriff of Shelter Valley. Tara Quinn Taylor
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of clothes for Ryan stuffed in with various sweats, T-shirts and socks that fit her, or the two-thousand dollars. Not many people traveled with that much cash. And no identification.
Not smart people, anyway.
Beth didn’t know what that bag signified. But she always kept it close. As though it somehow connected her to the self she’d lost.
As for the two-thousand dollars—part of it she’d invested in equipment and supplies to set herself up in business.
“There’s something else,” Greg said slowly. “The front ends of all the stolen cars—ten years ago and now—were smashed in such a way that no matter what make or model, they look remarkably the same.”
“Like they all hit the same thing? Or something similar?”
Greg’s brow cleared as he nodded. “Yeah. Odd, huh?”
“Very. Your deputy didn’t think so?”
“Didn’t seem to. Nor did he seem impressed by the fact that they were all new-model cars. Most carjackers are looking for quick transportation. They aren’t usually so picky.”
“You’re sure this guy knows what he’s doing?” Beth asked, somehow not surprised at the thought that this deputy might not be all that he seemed.
What she found startling was that she was so cynical. She’d just naturally assumed the man was up to no good. People didn’t think that badly of the human race without reason, did they?
Oh God. She was cynical. Two things for the list in one night. This second one was not a characteristic she was particularly eager to have.
These past months of almost no self-revelation at all weren’t looking as bad as they once had…
“I know he does,” Greg said somberly, his words rescuing her from the familiar dark hole she’d been sinking into.
“WERE YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF WORK OR SOMETHING?” Greg asked, pointing to the piles of papers, receipts and ledgers on the scarred desk at one end of the room. Beth had grown silent, and he was kicking himself for bringing up such a personal subject. But then, it was difficult to tell what she considered personal. He’d worked so hard for so long to get in the door, and he hated the idea of losing the little trust she’d given him.
“Just doing my books,” she said, sounding completely relaxed. Maybe for the first time in their acquaintanceship.
He smiled. “Looks like you’ve got enough stuff going on to be running a business the size of the Cactus Jelly plant.”
“I told you I liked numbers. I’m actually keeping a tally of month-to-month percentages on the variance in cleaning supply costs. I check at the local Wal-Mart and at several places in Phoenix. I then keep track of how much cleaning I can do per ounce of solution. I’ll bet you didn’t know, for instance, that Alex Window Cleaner does linoleum more cost-effectively than any of the ammonia-based floor cleaners.”
“No, I didn’t know that.” There was apparently much more to cleaning than he’d ever realized.
But what was of far greater interest to him was the woman who was rattling off dollars and ounces as easily as he did police radio codes.
“I take it your business is doing well,” he said, when she’d given him a rundown on the benefits of bulk purchasing versus storage costs. Not just for cleaning supplies, but for business in general. Beth hadn’t been kidding. She knew her stuff. More than any business student he’d ever known.
“As a matter of fact, this is the first month that Beth’s Basins—and the Allens—are completely in the black! The bills are paid, money’s put aside for emergencies and Ryan’s education, and I even have some to spare. Ry’s been wanting this balsa wood airplane he saw downtown, and even though it’s really for older boys, I’m going to get it for him.”
“He told you he wants an airplane?” Greg couldn’t believe the change in her. She could have been any normal woman.
Certainly she was a beautiful one. Beth’s loose auburn hair falling over shoulders left bare by the tank top she wore was driving him just a little crazy.
“Ryan hasn’t said so, of course,” she was telling him, her bare feet pushing off the floor as she rocked gently. “But his eyes light up every time we pass it. Hopefully I’ll have time to take him tomorrow.”
“You really love that little guy, don’t you,” Greg said. About that, at least, she was completely open.
“More than life itself.”
Somehow one hour became two and Greg was still there, sitting on Beth’s couch while she rocked in her chair. She’d gotten up once to get them both cans of soda and to check on Ryan, but that was all. Greg, who usually had a hard time staying in one place, was surprised by how much he enjoyed just sitting there looking at her.
Maybe that was why he didn’t push his luck with any more personal questions. He didn’t want her to show him the door.
Even now that she was more relaxed, Beth’s eyes were still inexplicably expressive. Was it just her intelligence he saw there? He didn’t think so.
The woman was a contradiction. Vulnerable one moment, and completely in control the next. Able to accomplish anything. Needing no one.
Teasing—and instantly defensive.
Insecure. And then confident.
And those breasts. He was ashamed of how much he was noticing them, how many times he thought about touching them.
Greg stayed long into that night, talking, mostly about growing up in Shelter Valley—including his college years at Montford University, the Harvard of the West, Shelter Valley’s pride and joy. Beth had a million questions, making him wonder if she’d been storing them up for the entire six months she’d lived in town.
A million questions, but very few answers.
He got to know nothing at all about the circumstances and facts, the history, that made up Beth Allen’s life.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO LIE. Driving her old Granada to Bonnie’s for her second Sunday dinner in three weeks, trying to distract her thoughts with the grand beauty of the mountains surrounding them, Beth finally accepted that she’d have to make up a past—not just the couple of lines she’d recited anytime anyone asked about her. Up until now, the fact that she was a grieving widow had sufficed. Recognizing that her recent past was painful, people were sensitive enough not to ask further questions.
But that was when those people were only acquaintances.
Bonnie Neilson and her family—her brother—wanted to know Beth Allen. Where she came from. Where she went to school. Her most embarrassing moment. Happiest moment. The men she’d dated.
The man she’d married.
They wanted to know it all.
They had no idea how badly she wanted to know all those things herself.
What she didn’t want was the rest of the memories that would come as part of the package. She was scared to death to find out she might have stolen her son.
If that was the truth, and if she remembered it, she’d be forced to give him back.
Still, before she’d left home today, she’d read over the few entries in her memory notebook, trying to piece together a picture she could give people.
“We’re going to Katie’s house, Ry,” she told her son, sending him a big smile. His feet, hanging over the edge of the sturdy beige car seat, were still. But his eyes were alert, intent, as he looked back at her, straight-faced.
“You remember Katie from Little Spirits,” she continued, knowing that Ryan understood everything she was saying, even if he wouldn’t respond. “We